


Say You Will

by nervoussis



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (Because is it really a wedding if someone isn't pissed off), 1990s, Adoption, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, So they're like, Steve and Billy have a kid, We should probably get married, Wedding Planning, writing vows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:20:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25754230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervoussis/pseuds/nervoussis
Summary: LIL NOTE: This is on Hiatus until after Halloween. We've reached the Christmas chapter and HUNNY; I'm about to go off. For now we will focus on the spooks & then we'll focus on the holly jolly. <3"Yeah, I'm. Not a second longer. Marry me."That's how he said it.Marry me. Like it was a demand, a done deal.And it fucking was. It always had been, ever since Steve kicked Billy's ass in a game of horse when they were seventeen years old.Billy had fallen in love with Steve a little more everyday. Through every fight, every lost moment of affection. It became a promise, something Billy could count on; Steve Harrington loves me so I can do anything.It was a truth he could take to the bank.Steve gaped at him again. "Marry me, Billy." He repeated. "Please.""Are you out of your fucking mind?""That's your answer?" Steve asked.(OR) the story of how they finally tied the knot
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Past OMC, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley/Barbara "Barb" Holland
Comments: 24
Kudos: 81





	1. Wonderwall

Steve has always been greedy. It’s a character flaw that has ruined every Good Thing in his life for as long as he can remember.

It’s like this; things will be going well. Steve will be so _happy_ that it transcends anything he’s ever felt in his whole life, every good thing clashing in the thin air to form a new, neon bright emotion.

He’s shitting rainbows. 

He’s smiling at strangers and marching down the street with a pep in his step. He’s smiling so much that he’ll have to see a doctor about the permanent smile on his face.

And things will be good.

 _Too_ good, his dumb brain will decide, and out of _nowhere_ Steve will start demanding more.

Devouring blessings with reckless abandon like there’s a secret time limit and the universe is always coming round to collect. Like there aren’t any consequences to his desire.

It happened for the first time when he was five and his grandmother baked oatmeal cookies, making it _very_ clear that Steve was only allowed the three that were cooling on the rack. After she laid down for her nap Steve saddled a chair by the counter and went to town, eating the rest of them as well, just because she’d told him he couldn’t.

It happened when he met Nancy Wheeler in the sixth grade. Steve had taken one look at her pretty brown hair and decided he would do anything to win her and keep her by his side, even after she was gnawing at her own wrist to get away.

It happened again when Billy kissed him at Tina’s Halloween party, but that time had been different. It was the rusty nail in the coffin for Steve, the way Billy’s torso had been covered in beer, _glittering_ like that under the Christmas lights. He’d been so carnal, so delicious that Steve was instantly a goner. 

He decided that he would do anything to have Billy Hargrove.

Would make an absolute fool of himself and trample over anyone who might be standing in his way _._

It took awhile for them to get there but by some small miracle Billy wanted him, too. Was just as desperate to cling to what they had, loved just as bruising and biting and possessive as Steve did.

And he’d wanted to swallow Billy whole. Fantasized about cutting him open and resting, soft and warm, inside that golden skin. Steve would do _anything_ just to stand in Billy’s light. He was brighter than the sun, no one outshone Billy Hargrove, no one even came close. 

Their love was the closest to heaven Steve would ever get, he decided.

In a lot of ways he thought getting lost in someone so special would rub off on him.

Would make Steve just as remarkable by association, especially when he felt so inadequate inside himself.

So yeah, Steve was greedy and they had a rocky go of it at first. 

He had fallen too quickly and clung too tightly, like always, and it nearly destroyed them because Billy wasn’t used to it.

He bristled like a rabid dog at any kindness shown to him but once Steve peeled back the layers after a _lot_ of kicking and screaming, Billy was ethereal. Intelligent, thoughtful, funny and kind when he thought no one was looking. 

But the thing is; Steve was always looking. 

So he clung even tighter and eventually Billy gave in. Let himself be loved.

After graduation they ran away together. Billy enrolled in University and got a degree in Art Therapy while Steve focused on supporting his lover’s way through school.

He made a lot of money working a cushy desk job in his father’s Chicago office so Billy could focus on his artwork, could afford to buy the best paints, the most prestigious supplies.

And as much as it had cost; thousands of sleepless nights and countless warm beers on the balcony at two a.m., a broken record of _I’m a fucking sellout_ on repeat in Steve’s brain; it had been well worth it when Billy got his first residency at a Gallery in the city. 

Had been worth it see him smile,

After that first year they were able to afford a penthouse Forest Glen and then a swanky house in the suburbs after a few more.

So it was 1992, a whole new decade, and they were successful.

 _Happy,_ Steve thought. 

Everything was going great. Billy smiled almost as much as Steve did and it was _gorgeous,_ seeing how happy he was, how brightly he shined. 

Their lives were so full.

They took vacations to Mykonos and Scotland, their favorite places on earth. They ate expensive foods and cooked breakfast together on the weekends and Billy _finally_ seemed at peace.

Like it was his dream, living in the suburbs of Chicago with Steve Harrington.

Like it was perfect.

But things eventually started breaking down. 

They had never talked about having kids but Steve had wanted them for _years._

It was written in his D.N.A or something, evident since he adopted six losers in the fall of 1984, but Billy never brought it up and as much as Steve had thought about it, _not_ having kids wasn’t a deal breaker. 

Steve just wanted Billy.

Wanted to have a life with him and was willing to sacrifice anything because, with that asshole by his side, Steve was doing alright. 

He just wanted whatever Billy would give him.

Everything else was just icing on the cake.

So Steve had pushed the feeling away and piled things on top of it, had resigned himself to never getting to see what a tiny Billy Hargrove would look like, and moved on.

They took more vacations, built a nest egg, made out on the couch in front of the fireplace and Steve was so in love it _hurt._

Everything was perfect.

Well, until he came home from a business trip one rainy night in March to find Billy painting one of the guest rooms in bright colors, desperation written all over his face.

“I want a baby,” Billy had said with tears in his eyes. “And I know you do too, Steve, you always have. We’re almost perfect.”

He remembers feeling like his heart was stuffed full of lightbulbs. 

To be honest Steve was just thankful that he didn’t have to say it first; starting a family with Billy was, like, top of his list ever since Tina’s Halloween party all those years ago.

Embarrassing, but true.

Steve was always demanding _more_ , always pushing the boundaries of what is reluctantly given to him and BABY wasn’t something Steve thought he was allowed to ask for.

Billy had never even hinted at it, had never asked Steve for _anything_ in the six years they’d been together.

And he was so grateful that it was something Billy wanted, too

So they started planning for a baby and Steve was so _happy_. 

It took a year to figure out what worked best for them. Billy was partial to adoption because "all kids need a family, somewhere to call home."

Steve was in no position to argue; they both knew what it was like to have shitty parents. 

They both knew what it was like to grow their own family, so; adoption.

It had been discouraging at first, the two of them sharing many sleepless nights and teary phone calls from adoption agencies.

They’d meet a kid, hang out and _bond_ with it for _months_ and then, for no reason at all, the rug would be pulled out from under their feet.

Fags and all that. 

So after the fourth rejection Billy had had to talk Steve off the ledge. All, “Nothing worth it in life ever comes easy, pretty boy. Just wait.”

Steve sniffed. “I don’t think I’ll survive another rejection. I can’t keep falling in love with these kids and then fucking--”

“I know,” Billy’s hands were sugar-rough on Steve’s shoulders. Firm. “You’re doing so well. Just--let’s try one more time. Please? And if they reject us again we’ll research other options.”

“Promise?”

Billy had kissed him. Strong and sure. “Of course.”

Steve owes Billy his life for that conversation. 

Two weeks later, on a rainy afternoon in November, they met Maven.

And Steve had never known love until he saw her for the first time, not really.

The social worker led them into a cute playroom with murals of farm animals littering the walls. The center prided itself on ‘helping to create genuine connections,’ so a large portion of the first meeting was play based, just as a test to see if they meshed well as a family unit.

Steve was so nervous he nearly fainted right there on the _Barney_ rug.

Maven sat alone, the floor littered with every kind of toy imaginable. She looked up from her play as the door opened and came forward instantly, big brown eyes curious.

She had pretty dark skin and beautiful hair that was done up in twists, Steve thought they were called, a style Erica would deny ever wearing in the eighties even though it was her go-to.

“Um, hi, sweetheart,” Steve said, face red as a firetruck. “What’s your name?”

She seemed cautious. “Maven, I’m four years old. How old are you?”

“How old do you think he is, kid?” Billy asked. 

Her little face twisted in concentration, Steve melting like a goddamn ice cream cone in July at the sight of it. She thought for a minute, her head cocked to the side, twists falling across her forehead. 

“Forty?” She squeaked.

Never mind, Steve hated her. 

Billy cackled that genuine hyena laugh that only three people and Maven, apparently, could pull out of him. They were hooked.

She led them to the rug, prattling to Billy about Cabbage Patch Kids and dinosaurs (her favorite things in the world), before going strangely silent about halfway through their time together.

Billy poked her cheek. “What’s goin’ on, stink?”

“I’m _not_ stink, you are!” She giggled, poking Billy on his neck. “You smell like hairspray.”

They were already best friends. Steve tried not to be jealous as she stared at him with wide, nervous eyes. 

“What’s up, honey?” He asked.

She still seemed unsure. Then, quietly; “Can I put a ponytail in your head?” 

So Steve had let her because it was already a competition to see who she liked best and he was determined to win. 

She called him papa for the first time that day. Steve was floating a foot off the ground, goddammit. Fighting tears and beating them back with a sledgehammer. 

By the time their three hours were up Billy and Steve each had a set of pigtails in their hair, if a little lopsided.

When it was time for them to go Maven had started crying. Big, fat crocodile tears staining her cheeks in dark pink lines. 

Billy’s face scrunched up in anger when the social worker tried to usher them out the door and fucking _leave_ Maven there like that. Sobbing in a room by herself.

Billy’s voice was quiet, demanding. “Give us a minute.”

The social worker looked terrified, powerless to that husky voice and the mixed bag of infatuation and fear it evoked. Steve knew the feeling.

As soon as the door closed behind her Billy crouched to his knees so Maven was at eye level. “What’s with the water works, kid.”

She held Steve’s hand, gulping down huge lungful's of air. “Wanna go with you.”

One look in Billy’s misty eyes and Steve knew. 

They were going to fight for this kid.

So they had sat with her a while, just until she calmed down, and promised to come back at the same time next week.

Steve showed her the calendar on the wall and explained that when they were on number seven she’d get to see them again.

“Promise?” She whispered, sandwiched in between them on the rug with her head on Billy’s shoulder. 

“Promise.” Billy said thickly

She had looked up at Steve with careful, unsure eyes, like she thought it was all going to be taken away from her. Like the rug was being pulled. Steve smiled, poked her nose.

“You think you’re getting rid of us? You’re stuck now, Maven.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Can we play cabbage patch next time?”

“Sure, kid.” Billy had vowed.

“Friends don’t lie, that’s rule number one.” Steve told her. He threw in a pinky promise for good measure.

\--

Their Social Worker called one dreary Sunday morning in February to say that the adoption papers were open on her desk, signed and approved. Official.

“She’ll be all ready to go in two weeks. We told her this morning and you should have seen her _face._ She’s busy at work, making you a present.” Their Social Worker had said, her voice thick with tears. “Maven is so excited to be your daughter.”

They sat together on the couch for maybe hours after that. Just holding each other, basking in the pride of it all. They were _dads,_ they had a kid that they had to look after and, like, teach to swear.

Steve felt heavy and light and _so_ excited. 

Billy wiped a tear off Steve’s cheek and said, in the dim glow of the fire, “Remember the time we got drunk and went to the park?”

Steve already knew where this was going. “Yeah, what about it?” He asked wearily.

Billy chuckled, chest rumbling against Steve’s ear. “We got hotdogs. You ate six and then we played on that swing set. Remember the kids? There were like, twenty of ‘em all stacked in a line but you were having too much fun to take turns. That mom was pissed. Remember what you said to her?”

Steve felt heat flood his cheeks. “Fuck, don’t remind me--”

But Billy got caught up in the moment, talking out his ass. “You said _ma’am, we’re kids too._ And when she tried to call the park rangers over you threw up down the front of her dress. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” Steve grumbled. He hated Billy. “I fucking repressed it, so thanks for that.”

Bill laughed softly, eyes misty against the light. “All I can think is; that guy is somebody’s _dad._ ”

And, just like that, they both were. Maven was screwed.

So Steve and Billy called everyone they knew. Max and Dustin first, then Hopper and Joyce who promised to fly down next month with gifts. All, _she’s our grandkid, we have to spoil her rotten._

And there was so much to get done in two weeks so they split the workload. 

Steve was in charge of baby proofing the house which, like, okay.

Maven was four years old but also Steve had seen kids lick each other’s eyeballs at the park more than once, so.

He read every parenting book he could get his hands on. Set up their Adoption Therapy appointments, made frantic calls to Erica about the right hair products to buy for Maven.

Steve made sure they were prepared. 

He wanted to do this right, he wanted to make sure their daughter was comfortable.

Steve loved saying that; _our daughter._

While he made heads and tails of the logistics Billy was hard at work on her bedroom, painting the walls with pictures of all her favorite things. 

All along the border of the room tiny images of Cabbage Patch Kids, dinosaurs, and bowls of spaghetti sprawled like rolling fields.

Billy and Steve hand picked all of her furniture, sparing no expense in making it the coolest room fucking _ever._

It was incredible.

Honestly, Steve was kind of jealous. Kind of wanted a room like that when he was a kid and _definitely_ thought about hooking them up with a room like that now.

Billy spent many sleepless nights tucked away in that room, the _Scorpions_ blaring on his cassette player while he built a whole world for Maven.

Like it was easy and simple, or something.

Like they had any other choice but to spoil her absolutely _rotten_.

"I want her to feel like she has a place here," Billy had said.

And then, a minute later, Maven was home.

Their social worker dropped her off on February 13th, 1993 with a tiny pink suitcase in her fist. 

She hopped out of the backset, her little afro wild and free and had stopped and _stared_ at their three story house, her face completely shocked and frozen.

Steve started to get nervous from his spot on the porch. 

Did she hate it? Was Maven scared? 

Maybe she didn't want to live with them after all. 

But, after five seconds Steve stepped around the Lilac bush with Billy in tow and her whole demeanor changed.

"Papa, Daddy!"

Maven dropped her suitcase and sprinted forward as fast as her teeny toddler legs would carry her, right into Billy and Steve's arms.

"Hey, mama--" Billy giggled.

Steve had never heard him do that before. It was cute. 

"I got you a present," Maven whispered, pulling back just far enough to take her suitcase from their smiling (and crying) Social Worker. 

Steve's heart broke in two. "A present?"

Mavens little head bobbed up and down, smile reaching all the way to heaven.

"Well, come on kid," Billy teased. "Ain't gettin' any younger here."

She giggled and zipped open the pink suitcase, pushing around her Very Important Things to find what she was looking for.

Eventually Maven pulled out a coloring book.

Hand drawn, messy and misspelled and fucking _adorable._

She had redrawn all of their moments together.

Their first meeting, the time Billy (badly) painted her fingernails, their trip to the grocery store right before Christmas where Steve had gotten sick on free samples.

And, on the final page: _I love you Papa and Daddy. Miss Maven._

It was beautiful. 

Absolutely perfect.

Steve and Billy crowded together on the porch, Maven sandwiched between them, and neither knew what to say.

How to show their gratitude.

Because there, in the chilly morning sunlight with their daughter in their arms, Billy and Steve felt _honest to god_ happy and safe and like their lives had built in a crescendo to this exact moment.

To a swanky three story in the suburbs of Chicago with their tiny family that suddenly felt full. 

Complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah! I wanted to get a little set up in there before jumping headfirst into Wedding Stuff (!) next time.  
> Maven and I have a lot in common. My mom is white and for a long time she tried so hard to make sure she was taking care of my hair and raising me to be in touch with my culture and Idk. 
> 
> I just feel like adoption is very Steve & Billy.  
> Family is made, you know?


	2. Saturday. October 8th, 1994.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Year Later.
> 
> The first half is from Steve's perspective. The second half is from Billy's because why the hell not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might I suggest paring this chapter with a glass of:  
> Just Like Heaven, by The Cure.
> 
> The ultimate love song, you might say.

Steve doesn't know why he asked Billy to marry him on his way out the door like it was a goodbye they had practiced together.

Like it was as mundane as asking Billy to pick up the dry cleaning on his way home from work.

Steve had planned to do something _nice_ for the proposal, originally.

Take a trip to the coast, Maine or maybe Virginia, rent a suite at a cozy Bed & Breakfast for the weekend.

Ever since their first date he had had a vision about proposing to Billy in a field of wildflowers, the sky overhead just as blue as those eyes he loved so much. 

He had planned to make a speech, get down on one knee and present a ring Billy had unknowingly picked out a several weeks before.

  
It would be a surprise, he decided. And Billy wouldn’t know a thing about it even though he saw through Steve like he was made of glass, most of the time.

Steve had wanted it to be grand. Special, _perfect._ But as Billy stood in the foyer that morning in gray sweatpants and a lavender apron and _nothing else,_ like some sort of shameful wet dream come to life, Steve had surrendered.

He just couldn't hold it in anymore.

And it had changed things for them, a little. But also; nothing had changed at all. 

They had a daughter. They shared a mortgage and a bank account--as far as Steve was concerned they were already married.

But it felt nice to confirm it. 

Steve got lightheaded at the thought of calling Billy his husband but he also curled into the warmth of knowing that he truly belonged to someone for the first time in his life.

It wasn't something he thought he could ask for--an eternity with his truest love.  
  


Seemed just out of reach. To good to be true.

But, with the demand to have a baby last year the rules had changed. Now it seemed like Billy was content and settled, like if Steve finally asked he might actually say yes.

So when Steve got carried away on that dreary Saturday morning in October it wasn’t all that surprising.

The words had been sitting inside him forever, ruminating in every happy memory and stolen kiss until the sugary-sweet odor of it soaked through to his skin.

He was sure Billy could smell the sickening love on him like some sort of cheap perfume but that morning continued the same as any other.  
  


Neither expected their lives to change again for the second time in a year.

Steve was called into work last minute, the phone ringing off the hook while Billy cooked breakfast with his bare chest on display. 

  
Steve has to physically stop himself from staring: _Rugrats_ was on, after all.

He was still in his pajama's, for Christ-sake, tearing Maven's waffle into little pieces when the sky fell into his lap.

Steve's firm was preparing for a huge case, bigger than any they had worked on before and the past few weeks had been hell on earth.

A shitty, endless parade of meetings and long nights. Weekends away from Maven and Billy and their tradition of waffles and cartoons while they celebrated _all_ of October without him. 

In a word: Steve was burnt out.

Exhausted, physically and mentally, so their little family had set aside this particular Saturday for a trip to the pumpkin patch.

Their first activity of Spooky Season '94.

Steve was practically vibrating out of his skin with excitement. He had spent a chunk of time after work on Tuesday searching for family sweaters at the JCPenny.

The result shuffling through the _Holiday_ racks for an hour had resulted in three black turtlenecks with jack-o-lanterns stitched into the fabric. 

Billy was going to kill him and Steve had never been so willing to die.

He was excited, Halloween had always been his favorite and Billy had already started making their costumes without him, so Steve felt this was his chance for redemption.

So, when his father called and demanded that he come in _now_ Steve wasn't happy about the forced rain check. _Wasn't_ eager to shuffle papers in his office on a Saturday but, apparently, this was an issue that just couldn't wait. 

Steve reluctantly pulled himself away from their lazy morning,

And Billy's bare chest under that lavender apron,

And Maven's cute syrup-covered face because his dad had called to ask for him personally. 

All, _this is a huge case, Steven. If you value your position as C.O.O. you'll get your ass down here._

So.

Steve wolfed down the rest of his waffles and scrubbed a hand across his face, a pile of dishes left on the kitchen table as he skirted around the house in sock feet. Two seconds later he was mostly dressed, tie hanging loosely around his neck as he searched for his umbrella.

"Do you really have to go, Papa?" Maven asked. Her big brown eyes were glued to the T.V., Tommy Pickles leading the fray as the last ten minutes of _the Rugrats_ bled them dry. 

She always ate breakfast on these mornings like there were more important things to do. Like play, and watch reruns of _Tom and Jerry_ because they were Billy's favorite.

In her concentration her mouth hung open loosely, fork moving seemingly on its own as the waffle missed its landing a couple of times.

Her chin was covered in syrup and Steve had the sudden, vicious realization that she was growing up too fast.

 _Fuck,_ he hated that he had to miss this.

"Wish I didn't, mama." He said. And he meant it.

"But we were 'pose ta go to the punkin patch, remember?"

Billy poked at the golden-brown waffle in its iron, voice firm. Steve loved how they moved as a unit, always supporting each other in the face of their child. They were an immovable team.

"Hey, there'll be other Saturdays." Billy chided.

Still, Maven looked like she didn't believe him.

"Papa _always_ works on Saturday now." Her head rested in her hand, glum as she chased her waffle around the plate. "I hate Saturdays."

"Yeah, you're the only person in the world who says that, kid," Billy mumbled.

Steve's heart gave a painful squeeze. He had the sudden, incessant urge to make her smile which was not at all foreign.

It had quickly become Steve's favorite thing in the entire universe, and any time she wasn't smiling at full voltage he felt personally responsible.

"You think I like being the only one who doesn't get to watch cartoons?" He asked.

"Daddy says you love cartoons because you're a baby, like me."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Yup. A big baby." And then, gently; "I miss our mornings together too, stink."

Maven puffed out her bottom lip.

In the short year since she entered their lives Maven had changed so much from the shy girl they met in the playroom.

In every way she was their equal. Spoke like an adult, swore like one when the mood struck her, preferred to play alone or with the older kids when they were in town. Maven had started showing real interest in art and literature, as well, but not in kids books like _The Little Prince,_ which Steve had tried and failed to interest in. 

Nah, Maven was a _Stephen King_ fan. 

Fucking badass, if you asked Steve, but she was their kid. What else could he expect?

Steve loved her so much.

Felt like he was missing out on the person she was becoming because of _work_ and he fucking hated it.

Billy scrubbed syrup off her forehead. "We need to thank Papa for working so hard, yeah?"

Maven wasn't convinced. "This is stupid." She grumbled.

Steve furrowed his eyebrows. "Hey, promises are important remember? We stick to them."

" _Fuck."_ She said and Steve.

He almost burst out laughing because it was hilarious.

Because Maven said it with such sincerity that it was almost heavy.

Real.

He refrained, like always, ever the attentive parent.

Billy, though, did burst out laughing. That crazy hyena cackle rippling through the air like the sound of a chainsaw, his cheeks reddening as he doubled over with the sheer force of it.

He was absolutely no help, whatsoever. Maven broke out into a grin as Billy wiped his eyes and said;

"You're a fuckin' poet, kid."

And it was poetic, simple, and so goddamn cute that Steve almost cracked. Almost.

But then, because he was a _dad,_ half of a team and because one of them had to do be the adult here: "Well, at least now we know where you learned that word."

She shrugged her shoulders. 

Steve made clumsy, quick work of knotting his tie. He focused on Billy's face, on trying to signal with the heat in his eyes that they should discourage this behavior.

They didn't try to reign Maven in on most things. Steve and Billy let her run free, express herself in any way she saw fit but this?

This they had to correct.

If Joyce heard the way their child cursed like a sailor it would be their funeral for sure.

Billy sobered up immediately, clearly taking the hint.

"We don't say that word, Maven Clarisse Hargrove." His voice was so stern that Steve almost believed him.

"But you said we can say whatever feels good," Maven whined. "I like that word. 'S my favorite."

Billy squinted his eyes. "Oh yeah?" He asked as he leaned forward, palms pressed into the table. "Then how come I've never heard you use it before, genius?"

Maven narrowed her eyes right back. "I say it in my brain sometimes, where you can't hear, _genius_."

Steve blinked. "You've been saying that word and you haven't told us?"

"Well damn, kid," Billy whistled low, like he was almost impressed. "And here I was, thinking we're _friends_."

"I thought you were just saying ‘shit,’ Maven. Just the one word," Steve rambled. No one was listening to him. "You've been saying ‘fuck’ this whole time, too?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "You and Daddy said we were going to the punkin patch today."

And then, accusingly; "Friends don't lie, 'member?"

Damn, if she wasn't their kid through and through.

Steve felt guilt rush into his veins like a shadow on a sunny day. He felt like shit because it was true, what Maven said.

How many times had he cancelled their plans because of work?

How many Saturday morning cartoons had he missed?

Steve felt like he was going to throw up but he didn't get much time to mill it over as Billy shrugged his shoulders and said, unbothered:

"Sometimes plans change. Doesn't mean we throw a fit."

Like Maven wasn't a five year old girl or something.

Like logic even mattered, in her world.

And, sure enough; " _Wanna go to the punkin patch, want Papa to STAY!"_ she screeched, and that was the final straw.

Billy's face flooded with color.

He took three deep breaths as Maven writhed and kicked in her booster seat, looking at Steve before he crouched down to her level.

Billy put his hands on either side of the booster.

His voice was soothing. "Maven Clarisse, that's not how we get what we want."

She whimpered and sniffed, instantly calming down. 

They had learned a lot of things in Adoption therapy, not only about their daughter but also about themselves. How to deescalate tantrums, how to keep channels of communication open. Every day since that first meeting Steve and Billy had tried to ingrain what they learned into their family dynamic.

Everything is an open book. 

Steve took her hand. "You have to use words, mama. If you don't tell us why you're sad we can't help."

Maven took three deep breaths, just like they had taught her, and crawled into Steve's lap.

"Miss you when you work. Daddy never plays dress-up with me." She whined.

Billy looked offended. Truly, honest to god _upset_ like Maven had accused him of comitting a war crime. "That's bullshi--"

"Bill," Steve warned. 

"Sorry," He said sheepishly. Then, haughtily; "Maven I do _too_ play dress-up with you, that's a load of crap."

She lifted her head from Steve's shoulder and narrowed her eyes again, ever the skeptic.

"Nu-uh," Maven huffed.

" _Yes-_ huh." Billy snarled.

And Steve hated this. 

They had a report that took him back to Hawkins and the summer of ‘85. To Billy's blue Camaro and the endless trips to the mall with Max and the others they had to suffer through. In those days Billy and his sister had had a relationship that marveled any enemies-to-friends trope. 

Maven and her Daddy were the same way.

 _Exactly_ the same. Steve couldn't wait to see her bicker with Billy as a teenager. If Billy's phone calls to Max were anything to go by, Steve was in for a real treat.

He took this moment to kiss Maven's forehead. 

Steve wanted to be here.

God help him, he felt like a bad parent. Like he was missing so much while he slaved away for the almighty dollar so he said: "How about this. I'll go in to work today--"

Maven whined, tears already spilling down her cheeks

"But I'm going to put in for a paternity leave. Do you know what that is?"

Maven shook her head.

Billy pulled her into a hug, sighing as she adjusted her head on his shoulder. 

"That's what Daddy's been on, since you came home. 'Member how I've been painting upstairs, in my office? A paternity leave means Papa will be able to watch cartoons with you every morning, and play dress up in the afternoon. And drive me fuckin' crazy," Billy said sweetly, completely ignoring the daggers Steve threw his way. 

Maven pulled back to stare at them both.

Eyes cautious like she felt the rug being pulled, but Steve was dead serious.

He smiled at her. "What do ya say, stink? Can I hang out?"

Finally, she grinned. 

Steve wasn't going to miss this for the world.

\--

Billy followed Steve through the den to the front door, ever the housewife. He straightened the shoes on the rack and said, teasingly, “Sorry for teaching our daughter to swear.”

Steve chuckled, shoving his raincoat on with clumsy precision.

“She was bound to learn eventually, right? At least now she has us to teach her the right usage.” He pat his thighs, searching. Suddenly Steve’s eyes widened. “Fuck, I have to get the oil changed in the van, completely forgot. You’re carpool mom this week?”

“Papa said ‘fuck,’” Maven called from the kitchen.

Billy turned his back to Steve. “Eat your breakfast,” He said. And then, over his shoulder; "Still owe me a beer for that, by the wa--"

When he turned around Steve Harrington was perched on one knee.

Everything in Billy's head flew out the window.

_Holy shit._

"Steve--" He rasped, heart beating painfully in his chest.

But he couldn't get a word in edgewise because the kid was already talking.

Spitting thoughts into the air like a running blender without a lid and Billy couldn't focus. 

"I wanted to um. Do this the right way, I guess. Go somewhere, take you to a beautiful place and like, _show you_ how beautiful you are to me. How special." Steve was saying. He was looking everywhere else but up at Billy, like he might be afraid of what was twinkling in those eyes. "But then you fed me strawberry waffles on Saturday mornings and gave me a daughter and turned our house into a home. A bright, warm place where we could feel safe and, like, at peace. For once. Which I know doesn't _seem_ like a lot to other people but fuck other people? Home has always been lacking. For both of us, um."

Billy realized then that he was going to pass out. 

Steve must have seen something in his face because he stood and gripped painfully at Billy's shoulders, slender fingers digging into Billy's skin.

"I love you, Billy Hargrove." Steve prattled on. "I love you and I never thought I had the room to ask for the things I wanted. Like a family and shit and I just. You wanted it too. Billy, by some miracle you wanted _me too_ and I focused on trying to make it perfect for so long that we could have already been married for five years."

Billy choked out a laugh, snot dribbling down his chin. It didn't matter. He hung on Steve's every word.

Harrington swallowed, the movement of it shifting the air around them. "I only just realized that this moment, right now, is the perfect one. It's everything I've ever dreamed of Billy, you're. _You_ are my dream and I feel like I've been asleep for six years. I'm awake now, though," Steve said, to himself. "Yeah, I'm. Not a second longer. Marry me."

That's how he said it.

 _Marry me._ Like it was a demand, a done deal.

And it fucking _was._ It always had been, ever since Steve kicked Billy's ass in a game of horse when they were seventeen years old.

Billy had fallen in love with Steve a little more everyday.

Through every fight, every lost moment of affection.

It became a promise, something Billy could count on; Steve Harrington loves me so I can do anything.

It was a truth he could take to the bank.

Steve gaped at him again. "Marry me, Billy." He repeated. "Please."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

" _That's_ your answer?" Steve asked.

Billy nodded his head once, like he didn't believe this was really happening. It couldn't be, because: "I was going to ask you to marry me next weekend, nerd."

Steve's eyes widened.

He took a step back so suddenly that Billy almost toppled over, hyperaware that Steve was the only thing holding him up. The kid shuffled back into his space immediately, eyes serious.

"You--" Steve pulled Billy's chest against his own. " _What?"_

"Yeah I booked us a little cottage on the beach. Seattle. Already had your ring picked out and sized I, uh. I was gonna surprise you." 

Steve looked like he was in a trace.

Mouth hanging open, eyes wide and unblinking. 

Neither said anything for what felt like hours, days, until finally, Steve swallowed.

"So, um," He asked dumbly, "Is that a yes?"

Billy just kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I upped the chapter count again.  
> Sorry ;)


	3. Miles and Piles of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bowels of the Thing: Two Idiots and the Theory of Color
> 
> Pair this one with:  
> Crash Into Me (live), by Stevie Nicks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”

Billy decided to plan the wedding himself, as if his looming Gallery Opening was a dull afterthought compared to the excitement of Steve finally bearing his last name.

And: it was. Gallery Openings, while incredibly rewarding, were a dime a dozen. Here and then gone, the accolades _appreciated_ and _valuable,_ but there was only one Steve Harrington.

One wedding. One moment, one love for the rest of Billy’s life.

So he wanted to make it perfect.

That’s why Steve decided to let him take the wheel--Billy’s insistence on planning their wedding was romantic. So _special_ that Steve was reluctant to smash it to pieces.

“Are these the sketches?” Steve asked carefully from his perch on Billy’s desk. It was well past midnight, the warm glow of the lamp casting a dreamy haze across his freckled cheekbones. Steve’s fuzzy sweater rose up as he reached across the desk to clutch at one of Billy’s many sketchbooks. 

He was angelic, absolutely breathtaking. Billy’s fingers itched for a pencil. 

“Can I see them?” 

“No,” Billy said. He turned away from his easel and the massive windows behind it, scrubbing his hands with the tea towel that lived like a bird on his shoulder. “I know what I'm doing.”

To be honest, Steve had expected that.

He rolled his eyes, glasses slipping to the tip of his nose as he shuffled a stack of manila folders from his hand to the spot on the desk next to him. His firm was days away from settling the case and he was growing tired of the paperwork. Exhaustion did little to curb his perfectionism, though. He'd been pouring over the folders all night, checking and re-checking for anything his interns may have missed. Steve swore as a line of green paint materialized on one of their smooth cream faces.

“Bills, it’s _our wedding_. Like, ours. Together. What if I don’t like what you have planned?”

“Not possible.”

Steve frowned. “Oh yeah? And what makes you so sure?” He shuffled his sock feet on Billy’s expensive antique chair, cherub face critical.

He had his own desk in the office, of course, but had made a habit of living in Billy’s space for the last seven years. Old habits die hard, you might say.

While Billy’s corner of the room was often cluttered with paint cans and half-used sketchbooks and _countless_ charcoal pencils that Steve endlessly complained about, he felt more comfortable taking up that space than his own.

They had money now and more room than they knew what to do with; Steve still liked to stay where Billy could see him. 

He pushed the chair aside and settled himself between Steve’s legs. “I don’t know if you’ve caught on yet, sugar,” Billy mumbled against Steve’s skin, peppering kisses down the length of his throat, “But the visual arts are _kind of_ my thing. I’m good at this shit.”

Steve gasped when Billy’s teeth dug into his jugular. “Not the only thing you’re good at,” He breathed. 

“Preaching to the choir, pretty boy,” Billy pulled back, considering. “Besides; I think I’ve got your tastes pegged anyway.”

Steve squirmed under the heat of those baby blues. 

Billy had the eye of an artist and the intensity of one, too. When he _considered_ Steve that way he stepped back, drank him in. Got his hands all over Steve’s skin and prodded gently like he was a piece of art.

Like he was something worth seeing.

Billy’s fingers rested firmly on Steve’s chin. He let himself be adjusted while Billy worked away at something in his head. 

Finally, he crossed his arms. “Pastels, that’s what you’re looking for, right? Maybe a Spring wedding. Early, so it’s still crisp.” Billy said. “Outdoor ceremony. Small, maybe twenty or thirty people, and it’s not just because of the whole Fag thing. No, only the ones who are happy for us. Genuinely happy.”

Steve blinked. “How did you--”

Billy crowded back into Steve’s face, breath ghosting sweetly. “I’ve been studying you for seven years. That’s considered being an expert, in most fields.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve snorted. He smoothed his fingers over the flyaways in Billy’s bun, down and around the curve of his face. “What, you have a PhD in Steve Harrington?”

Billy turned his face toward Steve’s hand, kissing the thundering pulse at his wrist. “Yep, Imbecile Dynamics and Market flow,” His eyes slipped closed as he breathed in Steve’s scent; sandalwood and lemons. His favorite in all the world. “It’s like communications but more specific. Kind of a _How To_ for when the love of your life is a dufus.”

Steve’s eyes went soft, gooey. “Love of your life?”

Billy chuckled. Of course his brain would focus on _that_. “Like I said: dufus.”

Steve reached across the desk for his tea. Rice milk and peppermint, the same as every night. It was a different mug this time, though. He sipped quietly on a pretty pink ceramic thing--one of Maven’s many art projects.

In her scribbly, five year old hand the words _there’s wine in here_ were scrawled in bright blue paint. 

Billy had gotten in trouble for that one.

“Do another,” Steve said as he leafed through his work folders. “Like flowers, or something. Bet you can’t guess those.”

Billy smiled fondly from his place in front of the easel. He swirled a brush through the paint and lifted it to the canvas, hands steady and practiced. Professional.

“Calla lilies,” He said, voice soft and smooth with concentration. “Lambs ear. Maybe lavender, for the stress.”

“Asshole.” Steve grumbled. “You _did_ get a PhD in Imbecile Dynamics and Market flow. And here I thought you were just a pretty face.”

Billy cleaned his brush with paint thinner, blue eyes shining in the dim light. “Oh I am, for sure. Just,” He shrugged. “Got a big brain and a big dick. Kind of a two-for-one.”

Steve felt instantly sleepy at the Timbre in Billy’s voice. Could listen to him talk forever, though at the moment he wasn’t really interested in talking. 

He hopped off the desk and wrapped his arms about Billy, chest to back like they were characters in a Hallmark film.

It was very romantic. Steve’s stomach writhed. 

He planted a kiss on Billy’s neck, right where his shoulder met in a cluster of tight muscles. “Gotta hand it to ya. Give credit where it’s due.” And then, because Billy had to _work_ and not because Steve was any less hard than a rock; he stepped away. 

“Okay, you can plan the wedding. I trust you.” He said. 

Billy turned and caught his wrist, eyebrows pulled together. “Where you hoppin’ too, bunny?”

Steve waved a hand, padding across the hard oak floors. “Just pretend I’m not here. Wanna watch you work.”

Billy smiled and turned back to his painting.

Steve sat on the desk, fingers wrapped around his mug as he breathed in the scent of peppermint. He watched Billy paint with an amazement as fresh as the first time he had ever seen his lover’s work.

Billy was a genius with black and white’s. High contrast and heavy value, intense shadows and highlights. His work _leapt_ off the canvas in a way that made the need for color obsolete. 

Steve didn’t know shit about art but he did know the editor of _ARTnews_ was coming next month to do a spread on Billy and had used those exact words over the phone. 

He worked mostly in charcoal, creating massively popular works that took up entire walls or almost no space at all. His first gallery had been a “revelation,” according to the coordinator at Intuit: _For Boys Who Have Considered Suicide._

That first gallery expo had been a study into the mind of an abused child. 

Steve remembers feeling his stomach crawl into his throat when he saw that first sketch. 

And Steve got _lost_ in Billy’s work, absolutely consumed by the stories he crafted with his beautiful, eloquent hands.

He could only assume the world at large felt the same. 

“What’s her story?” Steve asked, nodding the woman in Billy’s painting. 

For his most recent exhibit Billy had started experimenting with color. The pigment of it was so saturated, so _smoldering_ that Steve felt his head was going to combust just looking at it.

“Maricella, she’s in recovery at Warren Barr,” He cleaned his brush again, pausing for a moment to slot himself between Steve’s legs. “I listened to her talk about her experience. Fucked me up, just a little.” 

Steve nodded. “Who’s the monster under her bed?”

“Hydrocodone, oxycontin ‘when the wind blows just right,’” Billy frowned. “That’s what she said. I was struck by how badly she wanted to disappear. Almost like it was wound into the fabric of who she is, you know?”

A study on recovery. Addicts and their monsters.

He stared at Maricella. Her beautiful face slashed right down the middle. Bleeding against a stark white background. In the distance her monsters stood like hookers under a streetlamp, in all their gritty Horror Show, Pageant Queen glory. 

“It’s. _Jagged. Dirty.”_ Steve whispered. _“_ I love it.”

Billy shrugged his shoulders. "Sometimes their stories hit a little too close to home."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like. Most of them have a history, you know? Aggression. Abuse, both giving and taking." Billy shrugged again, somber. "Makes me wonder, sometimes. How I woulda ended up if it hadn't been for you and Max."

He never liked talking about his work, got anxious when the compliments came flooding in--the true mark of an exceptional artist. Steve was different, though. For some reason he felt like he could talk to Steve about his process, his ideas.

Like the Dingus _knew_ shit about art, or something. 

Steve gripped his hand. "Don't have to wonder. I'm here."

Billy nodded like it was enough.

He lit a cigarette, sucking on the thing harshly. “Think it’s called _Icarus and the Angry Inch._ Maybe _Dark Turns and Noise_ _.”_ He peeked over at Steve, clearly nervous. He smiled. “Whatever.”

And, yeah.

Steve couldn’t think of anything else to say other than; “It’s perfect. _You’re_ perfect.”

Because it was true.

Billy slotted their noses together, voice serious as he said, “Sure you want you wedding planner to be a guy who paints gore for a living?”

“Shit and piss could be interesting,” Steve kissed him, eating up the taste of his skin. “Least we can say our ceremony’s original.”

Billy laughed, eyes sparkling. “You’re my muse, you know that?” He said. 

Steve couldn’t take it anymore.

He mashed their lips together, nipping frantically at Billy’s lips like a bunny _for real._

Billy’s arms came up to encircle Steve’s waist. 

He gave back just as hard, just as delicious until Steve was flat on his back, the mahogany desk cool against his skin even through the fuzzy sweater. Billy leaned forward between his legs.

Steve’s head fell back, the sweater slipping up over his head to reveal his smooth chest. Billy immediately went to work marking it up, his tongue chasing every bite and bruise--

“Daddy?”

Maven’s voice calling to them down the hall brought reality crashing, cold and bittersweet, through the heat of the moment. 

Billy dropped his head onto Steve’s shoulder with a sigh.

Maven had recently informed them with all too much sincerity and bull-headedness that she was afraid of the dark. Couldn’t stand to sleep in her own bedroom; not if the lights were on, not if they stayed with her until she fell asleep.

For the last three months, like clockwork, Maven would wake up at midnight and crawl between them under the covers. They had spoken to Kristen, their adoption therapist, about the whole thing.

She thought Maven was displaying signs of co-dependency, Billy thought she was full of shit.

 _Maven’s five years old, Steve,_ He’d said while she slept in the car on their way home that day. _It’s perfectly normal for little kids to be afraid of the dark._

So they co-slept, much to the dismay of their nightly arrangement, because Billy and Steve weren’t monsters. 

It was hard, at first. It seemed that every evening when they tried to slip away she would stir out of sleep and cling to them like a banana to a tree.

They didn’t have sex in their bedroom anymore.

If Steve was really being honest, it wasn’t easy to sleep with Maven in the bed _at all._ She snored. She hogged the covers, and was cranky in the mornings when they tried to wake her up for school, brooding over her cereal while Steve got ready for work. 

Maven was Billy’s carbon copy in _every_ way. 

Billy backed up first. “Duty calls,” He said glumly. Steve would have chided him if it weren’t for the wink.

Sure, it was hard to co-sleep with Maven. 

But she would only be little for so much longer. They were kind of eating it up.

Billy kissed him one final time, slow and sweet, before trotting down the hallway to their bedroom. Steve grinned when Billy apparently started jumping on the bed and Maven’s little hyena cackle filled the house.

Steve was happy.

So happy it _hurt,_ goddammit.

\--

By the end of the week he couldn’t take the suspense anymore.

Billy stepped out of the house for a meeting with the coordinator of the Renaissance Society on Friday morning, leaving Maven and Steve to fend for themselves for the rest of the afternoon. 

And it wasn’t that Steve didn’t trust Billy’s vision, or something.

He was just excited. _Obnoxiously_ so, like a kid on Christmas.

So Steve waited until the Camaro disappeared around the corner before he grabbed Maven’s hand and tip-toed up to their office, taking the stairs two at a time like Billy might burst in at any second. 

Steve shut the door quietly, just be safe. As if Billy could hear them from all the way across town. He started leafing through the sketchbooks on Billy’s desk.

“Daddy told me I get five dollars if I catch you trying to see what you aren’t ‘posed to,” Maven said from her spot by the door.

Like a _brat._ Maybe she was Steve’s kid, too. 

He turned to stare at her, hands on his hips. “Did daddy tell you what I’m not supposed to see?”

Maven shook her head. 

“Then how do you know this is it?” Steve asked.

Maven thought about it for a minute, finally shrugging her shoulders like the whole thing wasn’t her problem anyway. She crossed to Steve’s plush desk chair and climbed onto the cushion, feet swinging back and forth as she asked:

“Wanna color, can I Papa?”

Steve paused in his search. “Not in my chair, you got paint all over the desk last time, remember? Daddy had to clean it up with thinner.”

She shrugged again. _Not my problem,_ her eyes said. Steve chuckled.

He handed her a random stack of papers and a pencil. “Draw like Daddy, okay? Black and whites are his favorites.”

Maven hummed, already scribbling on the edge of the first blank page. 

Steve searched high and low, across the expansive mess that was Billy’s desk and _nothing._ He had hidden the sketches well.

Obviously Billy had prepared for this exact situation, seeing through Steve like he was made of glass. That PhD seemed less ridiculous the more Steve thought about it.

He leafed through the binders once more and decided to give up. “Dammit,” He muttered. 

“Papa, this one is used already,” She whined. 

Steve brought her a fresh stack of paper, wracking his brain for where the sketches could be hiding when he nearly doubled over in surprise. 

Maven had come within an inch of scribbling all over Billy’s wedding plans.

He sat in the chair by the window, absolutely entranced by how beautiful they were. Billy had thought of everything and while some of the choices weren’t what Steve would have originally chosen himself, they were _exactly_ what he wanted.

Steve and Billy were to get married in the woods by Sattler Quarry back home in Hawkins, where their story had begun so many years before. 

Billy had sketched a beautiful wooden beam held up by two poles that would create a simple, rustic alterspace for their ceremony. All down the aisle bouquets of Amaranth, Calla Lilies and Lavender stood entwined on stakes in the ground, creating a dream-lit path for Steve to walk.

Their family and friends would sit on benches constructed of antique logs, and the wedding party would have Boutonnière’s made of Larkspur and Lily of the Valley.

Billy had gone so far as to design their suits, the centerpieces for the reception, _everything._

It was so beautiful. Maddeningly so.

Since he was a little boy Steve had thought of what he wanted his wedding to be like; this surpassed every dream, every expectation he had set for himself.

It was perfect.

“Papa, are you okay?” Maven asked. She stood watching him from the foot of his chair, sunlight catching the twinkle of her eyelashes. Steve sat back in the chair so she could sit with him. “Don’t cry, it’s okay.”

Steve snuffled. “Happy tears, mama. I’m really happy.”

“We don’t cry when we feel that way. Smiles are for happy, remember?” She said accusingly. Then, because Steve was still staring at the plans; “What’s those?”

He showed them to her, what Billy had drawn for their special day. Steve explained to that a wedding is a very important party for people who love each other and that her Daddy and Papa had loved each other for a long time, but they didn’t want to get married until she was home.

Now that she was here everything was almost perfect, Steve said.

She listened patiently. Frowning all the way through without interruption, like she understood how grown-up and important this strange party would be. Maven smiled brightly when Steve told her she would be the flower girl and could wear anything she wanted.

“Even my _Powerpuff Girl_ pj’s?”

Steve laughed. “You gotta ask Daddy, pumpkin. That might mess with his vision a little bit, but we can ask when he gets home.”

Maven brushed her hand across his face. “Will you wear a suit?”

“Yep, and Daddy too.” Steve said. “Why, do you want to wear one?”

She thought about it for a minute, her little face screwed up in concentration. Finally; “I might want to. I like bowties.”

He laughed again. 

Maven went back to drawing and Steve went back to staring at the renderings, feeling like his heart was floating out of his chest. By the time Billy walked through the office door and caught them red-handed, Steve couldn’t have cared less. 

It was everything he had ever wanted.

This, _Billy,_ was everything he could ever want.

He was so grateful he was choking on it, and Billy noticed immediately. His blue eyes softened as he said:

“Told you I knew what I was doing.”

Billy hugged Maven and then crossed to where Steve was still sitting in the chair with fresh tears rolling down his rosy cheeks. 

“Hi, love,” He whispered.

Steve made a noise in the back of his throat and Maven, curious eyes wondering why everyone was _crying_ so much these days (it was starting to get embarrassing), crawled into his lap.

She had her arms wrapped around his neck when Billy pulled out a tiny velvet box.

Steve’s heart stopped beating.

“So. Might have lied about where I was this morning,” Billy said sheepishly. “I went to pick up your ring. Do you want to see it?”

Billy opened the box and the tiny, pear shaped diamond twinkled in the afternoon sunlight. It was gorgeous. 

Silver band, feminine but also masculine and. 

Perfect.

Billy smiled at them both and slipped the ring onto Steve’s shaky hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze before he produced another, smaller box for Maven. Nestled inside was a simple gold band with tiny hearts hammered into its metal frame.

Maven gasped, “Pretty!”

They laughed and helped her put it on her right index finger, the rest too small to hold it. 

Billy’s eyes went soft, watery. He took a deep breath, nodded to the renderings still clenched in Steve's right hand. “Did you at least like them?" 

And Steve couldn't _believe_ someone so smart could be so dumb.

"Yes, I. _Of course_ I did. They're beautiful, Bill." He said, like an idiot.

Maven nodded enthusiastically. "Papa told me I could wear my _Powerpuff Girl_ pj's to your party!"

Billy stared at him. "That right?"

Steve shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. "I told her we would ask." Because honestly? They could get married in their living room, or at the local dump, for all Steve cared. So long as it was Billy Hargrove, it would be perfect.

Billy nodded, trying to remain serious. He sighed. "And what about the colors, did you like those, stink?"

Maven thought about it and then said, in her five-year old judgement, "I think we should have a rainbow."

All Steve could do was laugh.

It was becoming his theme, this ridiculous level of happiness that was permanently plastered all over his life.

Billy shook his head and said, thickly, "I love you both so much. You're my dream."

And, yeah.

It was perfect. Steve couldn't wait for the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters?? Holy cow
> 
> Also: many thanks to liglitterbug on tumblr for the rainbow idea!


	4. Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if you can't see, I'll never leave
> 
> Pair this one with:  
> Pitch in the Baby, by Cocteau Twins
> 
> WARNING FOR:  
> Steve’s neglectful parents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. It's September and I'm writing a chapter about Christmas, if that tells you where my head is at these days. I started my senior year at uni last week and I'm already so exhausted with meetings and assignments and just general responsibility. One of the dumbest side-effects of this capitalist hell is our overloards are saying, "We know you're all going through a horrible thing right now, guess the only thing you can do is Work Harder!"  
> Like we're Boxer in Animal farm, or something. I just wish we could take a break.  
> Like, all of us. Just a solid, hefty break.  
> We've talked endlessly about how Terrible this year has been because of ~The Unpleasantness~ so this is the last I'll mention it, but I want to celebrate all the holidays early this year. Like, ridiculously early.  
> I wanted to carve a pumpkin in July. I wanted to sing Christmas carols fucking yesterday. The fact that I have sweaters and Halloween films and Christmas lights to look forward to is legitimately the only thing keeping me going right now, so.  
> I hope this chapter can bring you a tad bit of joy during these trying times.  
> lysm bye

“Can’t you just call him and ask?”

“He won’t do it, Steve. I don’t care what you say or how much you stick that fuckin’ _lip_ out, sweetheart--”

“Daddy said ‘fuck,’ Papa.”

“I want him to officiate the wedding,” Steve turned the car onto Blackstone with a sigh, hands white-knucled and desperate around the steering wheel. “Okay? He’s been like a father to both of us as I just don’t--”

“Hop gets nervous in front of crowds.” Billy said, like that was a good enough reason _not_ to ask. He lit a cigarette and cracked his window to filter the smoke.

Steve blinked at him, incredulous. “What do you mean?”

“Yeah, when he spoke at Nancy and Jonathan’s wedding the guy could hardly breathe up there under all those lights. Remember how he threw up in the bin afterward? Not his proudest moment, I reckon.” Billy shrugged his shoulders, grinning. “Won’t fuckin’ do it, Harrington. You can take that to the bank.”

“Daddy said _fuck_ two times, Papa _.”_

“Maven,” Steve began darkly. “We don’t--”

“That’s two quarters for the jar, genius.” 

_“Billy,”_ Steve chided. “Can we--okay, y’know what? I’m initiating a quiet-time. Five minutes.” 

Maven protested from her car seat. 

Steve shook his head. “Do we wanna make that three quarters for the jar?” In the rearview mirror Maven crossed her arms in a pout. It was too fucking cute. “Didn’t think so.” He finished grimly.

Billy puffed smugly on his cigarette.

They spent the weekends flitting all around town these days preparing for the wedding, bundled up for the winter in mittens and woolen scarves and bad attitudes.

Steve and Billy had fought a little about the date. Steve wanted a spring wedding, the sooner the better really, and Billy just wanted Steve. He had convinced him, however, that it would take at least six months to plan this thing correctly. Billy's Gallery exhibit was opening in three weeks and thus the wedding planning had had to take a back-burner; still, he wanted to make sure it was perfect.

In the end they compromised; an October wedding in Hawkins. Sure, the wedding was still ten months away but things were already moving a too quickly, becoming too real, as they prepared to head back home for Christmas.

They hadn't told anyone the news, yet.

The calls still had to be made. The groomsmen picked, the arrangements decided on; Steve was preoccupied with the annual visit to his parents house. He just wanted to get through the shitty early dinner with their judgmental comments and their sour faces. Just wanted to tell them the news already; _mom, dad, we’re getting married,_ because it couldn't be worse than the first time he had come out.

Steve could already see the disappointment on their faces.

Maven would walk away with a small cruise ship worth of gifts regardless and Steve would walk away with shame, hot and heavy, like he had something to be ashamed _of_. They still weren’t jazzed on the whole Gay thing. 

It didn’t matter.

Marrying Billy was already Steve’s greatest accomplishment. Nothing his shitty, emotionally unavailable parents could say about his life or his decisions would change the fact that Billy was his future, but Steve felt nerves churning in his stomach anyway.

He just wanted to get it _over_ with. Bite the bullet, have the uncomfortable obligatory family dinner so they could get to the _enjoyable_ part of being in Hawkins again: Christmas Eve at Joyce and Hop's.

It had been a little over a year since they had all been together under the same roof and Steve was. 

He was fucking over the moon with excitement, okay?

Christmas with the Party was the same every year. For the past decade that the traditions had been in place little had changed.

Steve and Billy went home to that living room floor and decked themselves out in sleeping bags and flannel pajamas, and suddenly they were seventeen again.

Joyce still made cookies every year, which the kids still frosted at the tiny kitchen table even though they were in their twenties.

Even though Steve blinked and they somehow grew up without him noticing.

Dustin and Lucas, who were both in Graduate school, for Christ-sake, _still_ argued like toddlers over who got to lick the bowl (even though their family included two actual toddlers now).

Hopper and El made everyone watch reruns of _Frosty the Snowman_ and _Rudolph_ on channel five. They _still_ cried at the end, every time without fail, much to the sneering delight Will and Mike.

Joyce still saved the tree decoration for Billy and Max, who fought relentlessly over which decorations to hang. Like ornaments made by a group of kids could really be chic or something. Two people who created art for a _living_ should not be in charge of decorating something together. Steve could live for a hundred _years_ and not change his mind about that.

It was strange to think about how much had stayed the same over the years. Like the way Hopper and Joyce still bickered like they were teenagers in love. How Erica and Lucas were so sweet to each other when they thought no one was looking. 

How Steve still felt more at home with his surrogate family than he did fucking _anywhere_ else on Earth. 

It was stranger to think about how much had changed. 

Like how Nancy and Jonathan slept in the basement with their two kids. How Steve was getting too old to sleep on the floor sandwiched between Billy and Dustin. How Maven had cousins and grandparents, aunties and uncles who love her so much it was ridiculous.

How Steve and Billy were getting married.

“I’m tired of quiet time,” Maven grumbled. “Wanna talk now. Wanna _sing.”_

"It's only been three minutes, mama," Billy said flatly, "Thought we were working on our patience."

Maven shrugs. “Think I learned my lesson, though.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve asked. He pulled the car into the mall parking lot, grateful to have made it there in one piece, what with the ice and all that. “What did we learn?”

She smiled. “I have to say my favorite words in my head or somewhere you and Daddy can’t hear me.” Maven nodded at him, satisfied with her discovery. “Then I won’t get in trouble ‘cause you won’t know about it.”

Billy’s warm cackle filled the car.

“Can’t really argue with that,” Steve said, throwing open the back door to help Maven out of her car seat. “You’re a smart kid, you know that?”

Maven nodded. “Grandpa Hop told me I could think circles around you and Daddy. Grandpa Hop said I’m gonna be the next president. Grandpa Hop--”

“We know,” Billy deadpanned. “You’re a genius, kid. Now let’s go play Santa.”

Maven took off running.

\--

He liked to keep track of feelings as they rained down all around him. The precious things, the moments he’d want included in a movie about his life.

Maven’s first Halloween. The light in Steve’s eyes when his firm won their big case. Max’s hands when Lucas proposed the first time. Joyce and Hopper’s embrace when Steve and Billy bought them that well-deserved split level on Loch Nora.

Life was so full of love and Billy wanted to remember everything; slap it on a canvas and show the world his good fortune.

Billy felt desperate about it, sometimes. Urgent. Like if he didn’t document the precious moments before they vanished with the waves of time he’d have nothing to look back on when Maven had children of her own and Steve was married to someone better.

No. Life had never been so good and Billy wanted to have proof of how great it had been when the sky eventually fell.

But that's the thing about life; it's meant to be lived. Fully, completely, without someone constantly hitting record. You don't get time to sit and truly be thankful for every Good Thing on your plate because then there wouldn't be any time left for peace or slices of pie with you lover at two a.m. 

That moment, the engagement, for all its great and stressful moments; that's what Billy wanted to document.

A special wedding present. For Steve.

So, he bought a camera and took as many pictures and videos as he could of their little family. Steve on the phone with the florist bitching about the calla-lilies. Maven tucked into Billy's dress shoes as Steve whirled her around the living room to Their Song.

All the late nights, the early mornings. 

Steve with bedhead. Steve with syrup on his face. Erica braiding Maven's hair. Lucas teaching her to play ice hockey. Max and Maven eating spaghettis at the dinner table, each slurping their noodles obnoxiously.

Billy tried to cut back with with documentation for Steve's sake the closer it got to Christmas; the ever-present parade of cameras were doing nothing for his stress as he wrangled everything they would need for their weekend in Hawkins. Steve always struggled during that time of the year.

It was well after midnight when he sulked into the office. 

"Talk to me, doll," Billy said gently. "What's got you blue?"

"Just. Stuff." Steve flopped down in his plush office chair and hugged a pillow to his chest, pensive. 

Billy wiped the paint from his hands. "Stuff."

"Yeah, just. Mom and Dad." Steve shrugged his shoulders, voice shaking as he said; "The usual." Like there was a chance in hell Billy wouldn't bring it up again.

Fat; before long this part would be memory and tired as they were--with Christmas and the Gallery opening in the New Year, _and_ the wedding later on--as tired as _Billy_ was, he didn't want to shy away from it.

No, he wanted to make it better.

Billy crouched down in front of Steve, right in the crook of his legs, and tugged all ten fingers through his wily bed head.

"Not to be an asshole, baby, but your mom and dad suck." Billy said sweetly. "I wonder sometimes how two such fucking squares made someone like you."

Steve laughed in spite of himself, falling very serious when Billy didn't join in. His glasses were perched at the end of his nose so he looked a little bit like an owl. A grandma owl, so fucking cute.

Billy filed that image away for later.

"They're good to Maven, right?" Steve asked carefully. He sniffed, like maybe he had already decided what the answer would be. "Anything she needs they always wanna pitch in. Always phone to ask about her, always want to know how she's doing in school. What kind of person she is." Steve's eyes went all soft, droopy, and Billy instantly knew what it was.

Guilt, longing, anger. 

The potent cocktail of emotions an abandoned child fixes themselves every night, after another day of pretending like none of it matters anymore.

Like it doesn’t effect them.

Billy knows it well.

"However good they are with our daughter doesn't make up for how absent they were with you," He said. Steve looked away, wincing as Billy guided his eyes back home. "Doesn't change that they were never there for you."

"Yeah, but I'm an adult now. Shouldn't I be, fucking--" Steve snorted. _"Over it?_ Shouldn't I be grateful that they give two shits about seeing Maven at all?”

His voice started shaking towards the end, argument crumbling all around it and trapping him in.

"No," Billy said with finality. "Absolutely fucking _not,_ Steve. They hurt you. Badly they. They were the first people to break your heart."

Tears, warm and sweet spilled onto Billy's fingers where they were resting on Steve's jaw. 

He hated to see Steve cry.

Billy tightened his grip, sharpened his voice. _"Nothing_ that happened with them is your fault."

Steve nodded once. "What if, uh." He paused in his thought, clearly feeling guilt for something Billy couldn't name. Steve cleared his throat and tried again. "What if they aren't. Happy for us, when I tell them. What if they don't want to come to the wedding?"

In all honestly it wouldn't matter either way.

Billy fucking hated Steve's parents, though he played nice for Steve's sake. Those assholes made promise after promise to their darling boy for years, whether it be a vow to come to Chicago for the weekend even though Mr. Harrington had an office downtown or something equally meaningless, they never came through despite Steve's relentless hope that Maybe This Time Will Be Different and Billy had been there to pick up the pieces more times than he'd care to admit.

Every time his parents made a promise and Every time Steve fell for it. As far as Billy was concerned Mr. and Mrs. Harrington could screw off, fuck you very much.

But, something in Steve's face made him bite his tongue, like always. One look into those dopey brown eyes and Billy knew how much his parent's approval meant to Steve.

How much he craved it.

"Do you want the truth?" Billy asked softly.

"Lie to me." 

Billy nodded. "Then, yes. Your parents will be happy for us. They'll ask what our plans are, where we're going for our honey moon, they'll ask to see your ring." He wiped gently at the tears on Steve's cheeks as he cried more freely now. Billy felt like shit but he kept going. "They'll hug you and tell you how proud they are of you. They'll kiss your cheeks and say _we've never seen you vibrant before, you're glowing,_ and they'll mean it. Then they'll hold your hand over coffee and admit to how much they love you. How special you are to them."

Steve nodded again, his peppery whimper cutting Billy to pieces.

"They'll be so happy for us, baby," Billy whispered finally. "So happy for you."

Steve wrapped his arms around Billy's neck. Shitty parents, Billy knew them well. He held on tight as Steve's shoulders vibrated with the weight of his grief. He cried; really let himself feel for what felt like the first time, and Billy just held him because what else was there to do?

After a while Steve pulled back and smiled sadly, somehow taking Billy's life all over again.

"Liar."


	5. Outside the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The song used in this chapter is:  
> Leather and Lace, by Stevie Nicks
> 
> This song might be really freakin' important to the climax of the story.  
> Just a thought ;)

Mr. and Mrs. Harrington still lived on Loch Nora, five blocks and a million worlds away from Hopper and Joyce. Or rather the _shell_ of their family still lived on Loch Nora. The memories, that is.

Their massive three story house sat cold and empty for most of the year and technically belonged to Steve now that his parents were jet setting around the globe. Billy didn’t know where they lived these days, (Paris? Milan, maybe?) but in the end it didn’t make much of a difference.

Wherever they fucked off to either had poor telephone connection or they just didn’t see the value in picking up the phone and calling their son every once in a while. 

Billy’s money was on the latter as Steve parked their minivan in the driveway and asked for another cigarette. His fourth. He was trying to quit, but. Billy thought he could let a couple slide.

He handed it over without question. 

“Wow. The house almost looks--”

“Inviting? Yeah. Mom had the staff come by earlier today. Turn the lights on and shit.” Steve snorted, the chorded muscles in his neck protruding like the vines of a tree. “Even got the place decorated.”

Billy stared at him. “They’re not here?”

Steve shook his head.

_Figures._

Steve sucked on his cigarette, glancing at the rear view mirror to check on Maven, who was still fast asleep in the back with her head on a _Pinky and the Brain_ pillow. “They’ll be in tomorrow morning.” He whispered.

And Billy could taste the disappointment in Steve’s voice. The small, withered desperation of a little boy perpetually waiting for his parents to come home again, the sorrow of it reverberating down the halls of Steve’s throat.

It broke his fucking heart. 

Billy threaded their fingers together. “You mean we get the whole house to ourselves?” He tried. “Think we could sneak some liquor from the cabinet?”

Steve shivered at the drag of Billy’s lips over his pulse

“Dunno,” He breathed, so pretty in the wintery blue light. “My dad’ll kill me if he finds out.”

And, shit, did that take Billy back to basketball practice and fruity little polo shirts and keg stands. 

King Steve, his first wet dream.

Billy remembered climbing the towering oak tree in the backyard like it was yesterday. Sneaking into Steve’s window every night, drunk or high or any combination of the two. Risking absolutely everything by entering that ivory tower for the chance to mouth at that pretty neck, those milky thighs.

Billy couldn’t keep his hands off Steve back then. Hell, can’t keep his hands off Steve _now,_ even after eight years and a kid, but.

Steve in high school hit differently. 

Bratty and eternally failing every class, always pushing Billy up against the lockers and asking _would you tutor me?_ He had been dead set on pissing Mommy and Daddy off by fucking the local bad boy, in those days, and he got his wish.

Steve’s parents never liked Billy.

Mrs. Harrington got better about it over the years but Mr. Harrington always saw him as the hanger-on. The gutter trash that distracted his son from an otherwise _bright and happy future._

And for a long time Billy tried to live up to their standards. Cut his hair, spent money on expensive suits once the Gallery dough started rolling in. None of it mattered; Billy Hargrove just wasn’t good enough for their son.

“Daddy still have that mahogany desk in his office?” 

Steve nodded.

“Tell you what, pretty boy.” Billy slid his tongue across the pad of Steve’s index finger, relishing the heavy lidded stare he got in return. “You run that perfect little ass inside. Pour yourself a glass of wine, maybe call Joyce. Nancy’s kids are at hers tonight and Maven could stand some cousin time, don’t you think?”

Steve hated being away from her. Could barely contain himself when she slept over at the neighbors house, paced up and down the stairs all night with worry. He opened his mouth to protest, cutting himself off with a squeak when Billy bit down on his wrist.

“Call Joyce,” He said slowly. “Then you and I are gonna play high school sweethearts, yeah?”

Steve tripped all the way to the front door, eagerly moving like his ass was on fire and fuck.

Billy couldn’t wait to marry him.

\--

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Positive.”

“But what if--” 

“Baby,” Billy began darkly. Again. “You’re twenty-seven. Your parents aren’t going to be upset with you for drinking a little at Christmas.”

Billy poured himself another glass of whiskey, as if to demonstrate. 

Mr. Harrington drank the good shit, Dalmore ‘69, and had offered Billy a glass of it last year at Christmas like they were equals. Friends. All _real men drink whiskey,_ and shit. Billy downed the whole thing in one go.

For once that was something the two of them could agree on.

Steve sat on the couch in the same position Billy had left him in an hour ago, when he went to drop Maven off at Joyce’s. His nose was pinched up like a bunny rabbit as he worried over his half-empty glass of merlot. 

He always got like that when he drank wine. In his head about everything, down on himself for shit he had no control over. Billy didn’t really understand it and he didn’t have to; being inside this Scooby-Doo ass house again what with all its ghosts and hidden secrets probably wasn’t helping.

Bad vibes all around, just like a haunted mansion.

Billy poured himself another glass and flopped down on the couch. Pulled Steve against his chest just because he could. Because he loved to share his space.

Steve sighed. “I’m sorry for being such a stick-in-the-mud.”

“Yeah, you’re really harshing my vibe, Harrington,” Billy teased. He laughed as Steve batted against his chest, grinning in spite of himself.

“Stop calling me that.”

“What? Harrington?”

Steve nodded. “I’ll be Steve Hargrove by this time next year and then what? You’ll have to come up with something more original.” He sat up and polished off the rest of his wine, pouring himself another glass. Steve downed that one and settled back against Billy. “And we’re not seventeen anymore. This isn’t basketball practice, so--”

“Don’t fuckin’ remind me. We’re both wearing too many damn clothes for this to be basketball practice, darling.” Billy tickled him, “Besides. You’ll always be Harrington to me.”

Something dangerously close to hurt flickered across Steve’s expression. “You. Um, you don't want me to take your last name?” He mumbled.

And Billy felt like shit.

He took Steve’s face in his hands. Kissed the tip of his nose and then each eye-lid, which he always did when Steve got antsy. He breathed deeply, serenely, in response which was a good sign.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Billy grumbled back. “I meant, like. Harrington reminds me of how it was when we first started out. Do you remember?”

“I remember your ratty mullet,” Steve chuckled. “Against my will, I might add. Definitely don’t miss that fucking thing.”

He squealed as Billy got his hands under his sweater and plucked at his armpit hair. “Karl did a lot for me, you little shit--” 

“Okay, okay,” Steve screamed, pink cheeked and adorable. As soon as Billy let up he reached for the wine and poured himself another glass. Billy felt his cheeks warm as Steve regarded him through narrowed eyes, head cocked in consideration. Finally; “Maybe I miss it a little.”

Billy kissed him.“I still feel the same as I did in high school.” He said.

“You do?”

Billy could feel how important this was to Steve. His words had always shined light in all those shadowy places that threatened to spill over and this time was no different. Billy pulled Steve against him again, sighing as he tucked his face into the crook of Billy’s neck.

“Of course.” 

Steve nodded. “Me too.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence after that. Drinking in Mr. and Mrs. Harrington’s living room just like they had all those years before. When life was shitty and confusing and they only had moments like these to look forward to.

Moments where they were wrapped in each other's arms, blankets pulled around them in an act of faith against the night. Where the future seemed so far away, so out of reach in the thralls of abuse and rage.

Billy still couldn’t believe how far they had come, that _this_ was his life now.

That he woke up next to Steve every morning. That they had a daughter. That they smiled so much it hurt. That Max was his best friend. 

It only made him hug Steve closer. “Don’t be nervous about tomorrow, baby.”

He sighed. “I know, it’s stupid--”

“S’not stupid.” Billy whispered. “I’m gonna be here to help you get through it, Stevie. No matter what.”

He felt the brush of Steve’s lips against his jaw. 

Soft and sweet and sad. 

And then, because it was true; “Always.”

Billy wasn’t going to let him suffer this weekend. No matter what, he was going to give Steve the world.

\--

“You kinda look like Farrah Fawcett. Anyone ever told ya that before?”

“Yeah, you.” Billy took another swig from the bottle of wine they were sharing, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. “A million fuckin’ times, at least.” He drawled. 

Billy and Steve were camped out on the kitchen floor. Billy’s head on Steve’s thigh as his feet sat propped against the sink, dangerously close to the position they’d been in the first time they kissed.

It was nice. 

Warm and inviting and just. Great, being here.

Steve tangled his fingers in Billy’s hair with a smirk, yanking loosely on Billy’s blonde curls. His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he adjusted the strands into whatever weird shape he was going for and Billy let him, content to lie on the ground all night. Finally, Steve shook his head like he was satisfied.

“Bet you could do a blowout if ya wanted to.”

“Don’t wanna, though.” Billy chuckled.

“How come?”

“‘Cause it’s the 90s.” Billy took another swig. “Blowouts are _so_ seventies.”

Steve shook his head. “Mommy had one in eighty-three.”

And. That was wrong. Billy shook his head right back, mocking. “That guy from _C.H.I.P.s_ had a blowout.” He booped Steve on the nose, emphasizing each word. “That was seventy-four.”

Steve swatted his hand away. “Stop it, ‘m gonna sneeze.”

He did. 

Like a little kitten.

“You sound like a baby,” Billy grinned. He lifted the bottle up to his lips with focus. “Always soundin’ like a baby when’yre drunk, it’s too fuckin’ cute, asshole.”

Steve snatched the bottle from Billy, sloshing both of them with dark blue liquid. “Am not drunk, dickwad.” He slurred.

Didn’t even seem to notice that contradiction as the wine stained the hem of Billy’s favorite cream sweater, the one Steve always kidnapped and held hostage.

The one he was cuddled up in _right fucking now._

“Hey, got grape juice all over my sweater, _dickwad.”_ Billy did his best to glare. To bristle and bare his teeth like he used to, but. It just made Steve chuckle. 

He tented the fabric above his belly, hazy eyes unfocused and amused. Steve smiled and let the fabric fall back in its place, took a mouthful of wine and swished it around before swallowing. “Whoops,” he deadpanned.

Billy ran his fingers over it gingerly, already planning on ordering a new one. “This’s why I don’ let you wear ‘m shit.” 

That made Steve cackle.

“What?” Billy demanded. Which only made Steve laugh harder. “Why’re you laughin’?”

“It’s just. If someone told me in high school that _the_ Billy Hargrove; metalhead, certified douche weight-lifter, dangly earring gay _Billy Hargrove_ would be yellin’ at me for getting _wine_ on his favorite sweater?” Steve broke off in a fit of giggles again and okay.

Maybe it was a little funny and a lot devastating.

“You’re right, I’m a goddamn old man now.” Billy wailed miserably, tucking his face into Steve’s thigh. “You turned me into a granola person. This is your fault.”

He poked Steve in the ribs to emphasize his point.

“Ow,” Steve giggled. “How’s this my fault?”

“Those dopey brown eyes, you dick, they’re my fuckin’ kryptonite.” Billy sat up too quickly, wincing as all the alcohol in his belly sloshed around. Suddenly there were three Steve’s in the room and Billy tried to glare at all of them. “You turned me into a fuckin’ softie.”

Steve _looked_ soft as he said, “Well what about you?”

“What about me?” Billy challenged.

Steve clamored to his feet and trotted to the wine cabinet, corking another bottle for them to drink. Billy had to swallow against the wave of nausea in his stomach; he didn’t drink wine like this, okay? 

Whiskey on ice, sure. Tequila when he felt like celebrating even though it made him grumpy but _never_ wine. 

He had his reasons.

“I uh. I don’t think I can do ‘nother bottle, pretty.” Billy waved a dismissive hand as Steve bent over the freezer to retrieve more ice.

Stuck his ass in the air. Wiggled his hips as he broke up a particularly stiff lump with the ice pick.

Billy swallowed. He didn’t drink wine because it made him a whore, made him want to take off his pants and kiss. Steve.

Billy wanted to kiss Steve and for whatever reason, maybe it was the alcohol or his lovers ass in those pants or maybe it was just the fact that they were back where it all started--but Billy felt seventeen again.

And in turn fell victim to all the shit that came with being seventeen.

He felt nervous and unsure and incredibly in over his head with infatuation as Steve turned around, hair big and crazy, and looked every bit like all of Billy’s wildest fantasies rolled into one. “What, now I’m just pretty?” He asked.

And, yeah.

"So pretty." Billy whispered. He tracked Steve’s movement as he poured them each a glass of rose this time. All frothy and pink in those crystal wine glasses that Mr. and Mrs. Harrington kept in the china cabinet. Steve plunked a strawberry into each glass, and yup.

They were going to get his cleaning bill in the mail when Billy inevitably threw up all over himself.

Steve smirked. “Think I like pretty boy the most.”

“Picky, picky,” Billy tutted. “Don’t ‘member you likin’ it too much when we first started goin’ out.”

“Yeah, well. I was an idiot back then.”

Steve handed Billy the glass. It felt so delicate in his hands, like a baby bird or something. He held the stem between two fingers and sipped at it gingerly, hyper aware of those hazy brown eyes on his face. When he looked up again Steve was smiling softly like he sometimes did when he caught Billy playing with Maven.

“What’re you starin’ at,” He grumbled. Didn't particularly like being watched like that, made him feel like a specimen, but. Steve just kept smiling. The rose was good, Billy took another tiny sip as Steve shook his head.

“Was just thinkin’ about prom.”

“We never went to prom,” Billy deadpanned. “Fags, and all that, remember?”

Steve leaned against the cabinet next to him, legs longer than a stretch of dirt road, milky skin alight under the warm glow of the kitchen lamps and Billy had to tear is eyes away as Steve started talking.

"Wish we could have." Steve whispered.

"You coulda," Billy remembered like a knife in the back how Tammy Thompson had pined for Steve like he was going out of style. How she brought him flowers and gave a big promposal in front of the whole school at one of those lame pep rallies--how Steve's eyes had searched for Billy in the crowd when he hesitated in saying no. 

How he'd almost said yes.

Yeah. Not the best memory. "Coulda gone with--"

"I wanted to go with you, Bill." Steve snapped. Instantly his voice softened. "No way I was dancing with anyone but you."

Billy didn't feel like talking about it anymore.

"Yeah, don't get your panties in a twist, Harrington." Billy sipped at his wine. Smacked his lips together. "Bygones, and all that. Just yankin' that chain a yours."

Billy felt like an asshole, but. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened had Steve agreed to go to prom with Tammy Thompson. Would they have fallen in love that night? Would Steve be married to her with a kid that looked like him? Mr. and Mrs. Harrington would love it, Billy knew. Would call Steve more, maybe, if it weren't for the whole Gay Thing. Maybe Steve and Tammy would be living in this very house, experiencing this very night with Billy substituted for a different blonde head of hair.

It made his blood boil.

Billy downed the rest of his wine and nearly jumped out of his skin when Steve held out his hand.

"What's that for?"

Steve smirked. "C'mon, just trust me a little."

Billy stared at it suspiciously, like maybe it was a bag of snakes masquerading under soft skin and calloused fingertips. He shook his head, the world vibrating strangely around him. Steve frowned a little but brightened again almost instantly. 

"What, I just wanna dance with my husband." Steve sipped his wine and smiled softly. "We didn't actually get to go to prom, you know. Even though I saw the little sign he made for me."

Billy stared at him. 

That shitty little cardboard sign Max had helped him paint. They slaved over it for weeks, saving up to buy glittery markers in all of Steve's favorite colors because Max had wanted it to be perfect. _Romantic._ And it would have been, the words were all Billy:

_Go to prom with me, asshole._

He didn't know Steve had seen it. Billy opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Steve held out his hand again and it wasn't like Billy had a choice. 

He licked his lips and allowed Steve to help him to his feet. Billy teetered a little bit, cackling like a crazy person and leaning against Steve's gangly form to keep from toppling over. 

"We ain't married yet, pretty." He slurred. Because they weren't but it was so sweet, Billy thought hysterically, that Steve already saw him as his husband.

The feeling was fucking mutual.

He felt Steve chuckle where their sides were pressed together. "Details, details," He huffed. "Wanna dance with you."

And Billy wanted that, too. Hadn't really noticed the need to until Steve brought it up.

Billy wanted to dance with Steve. Hold him close, tell him he loved him.

Just another side effect of the wine.

\--

So, they danced.

Steve took fucking _forever_ leafing through his parents cassette collection, tossing aside everything from _Prince_ to _the Steve Miller Band,_ and Billy felt himself growing impatient as the fuzziness in his head started to move through the rest of his body.

"While we're still young," Billy said from his spot on the couch. 

Steve flipped him off over his shoulder. "I want this to be perfect."

"Why? S'not like somebody's filmin' us."

"Doesn't matter," Steve stuck a tape in the machine. He turned around and sauntered over to the couch, looking every bit like a cliché in a coming of age movie as bowed with a flourish, lifting his hand in offering. "May I have this dance?" Steve declared

And Billy didn't want to ruin the moment so he allowed himself to be pulled off the couch. It was so corny that Billy felt himself snort as Steve spun him around and then tucked him against his chest. He was kind of a good dancer.

Asshole.

_Is love so fragile, and the heart so hollow, shatter with words impossible to follow_   
_You're saying I'm fragile I try not to be, I search only for something I can't see..._

Billy felt awkward.

He was too drunk for this shit, stepping on Steve's sock feet as they swayed back and forth in his parents living room. Steve must have seen something on his face because he kissed Billy sweetly, slowly. "Just listen to the music, baby." He said.

So Billy did.

_I have my own life and I am stronger than you know._   
_But I carry this feeling when you walked into my house, that you won't be walkin' out the door..._

And maybe he got a little carried away. Sue him.

_You in the moonlight with your sleepy eyes, could you ever love a man like me?_   
_And you were right; when I walked into your house I knew I'd never want to leave..._

_Sometimes I'm a strong man_   
_Sometimes cold and scared, and sometimes I cry._   
_But that time I saw you...I knew with you to light my nights somehow I'd get by._

It was all too much--the wine and the soft light and Steve's big brown eyes welling up with tears as he stared at Billy like he hung the fucking stars. He never wanted this moment to end.

Wanted to live inside it forever, inside Steve's arms until the world crumbled down around them.

Steve's bottom lip was trembling. They were in trouble.

"Are you crying, Bills?"

"Shut up," He grumbled. Definitely, _absolutely_ crying against Steve's shoulder to a Stevie Nicks song. Steve smiled at him sweetly and Billy pulled him forward until their foreheads met somewhere between the bridge and the chorus.

_Lovers forever face to face_   
_My city your mountains_   
_Stay with me stay..._

_I need you to love me_   
_I need you to stay_   
_Give to me your leather_   
_Take from me my lace._

"Love you so much, Billy. You make me so happy sometimes that I can't even--"

"Me too."

And maybe life could always be like this.

Soft and perfect.


End file.
